The Post
by Pauline Dorchester
Summary: September 1942: Sam still has those letters to write ... (Picks up where "Fires Within Fires" left off.)
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer:** Sam, her father, Foyle, Andrew, Brooke, Joe, Milner, and Edith are all the creations of Anthony Horowitz. No profit is sought hereby, and certainly not achieved.

 **To the reader:** This website's typographical limitations have posed a real challenge to clarity in this story. Both writing and thinking are expressed by Italics; where one of these follows directly after the other, they are separated by a row of dots and thinking begins with a hyphen.

* * *

Monday 7th SEPTEMBER 1942

The rain shows no signs of stopping; indeed, the fiercest downpours seem timed to drench anyone who approaches Hastings Police headquarters, whether from the the front or from the rear. When Sam reaches the waiting room she finds Sergeant Brooke mopping up the rainwater that has dripped from department personnel and their umbrellas.

'Tell you what, Miss Stewart, you can put your brolly in there,' he directs her, pointing at a tall rubbish bin. 'Looks like we're really in for it. Though I suppose,' he goes on cheerfully, 'that might mean fewer incidents. More rain, less crime.'

'That would suit me down to the ground,' Sam remarks.

'Thought you _liked_ police work!' Brooke teases her.

'I _do,'_ Sam replies earnestly, 'but I haven't caught up yet with all of the thank-you letters that I need to write and I can _do_ that today, or _some_ of it, if I don't have to take the car out. I only hope my letter paper didn't get wet,' she goes on, tugging at her haversack.

It seems to be all right. Sitting down on the waiting room bench, Sam pulls out the haversack's contents: paper, envelopes, stamps, her fountain pen, her diary and a letter from Aunt Amy, just arrived. She would like to read the letter first but _Don't procrastinate,_ she tells herself. _Pick one of the letters you need to write, and just write it._

She takes a sheet of paper and puts it down on the surface of the bench, then pulls the cap from her pen. If she positions the paper at just the right angle she can lean over and write on it without too much damage to her handwriting.

 _In c/o Mrs Hardcastle, no. 25, Stonefield Road  
(but writing from Hastings Police HQ)_

 _7 September 1942_

 _Dear Joe,_

 _There are several reasons for this letter, one of which is to thank you for the beautiful lipstick, and for entrusting it to my friend Glenda Lyle. You really ought not to have gone to such trouble!_

'What's this?' Brooke asks, surprised. 'You could sit over 'ere, you know, if you're going to do _that._ Can't 'ave people coming in and seeing you looking like a contortionist.'

'Hmm? Oh, thank you!' Sam gathers up her belongings and moves to the sergeant's own small desk.

 _Thank you as well for the lovely card and simply for being so nice about everything, and please accept my congratulations on your_ _most_ _well-deserved promotion!_

 _I am sorry to be so tardy with this letter, but in fact I haven't written_ _any_ _of the other letters that I ought to have done recently. I went back to work last week after my convalescence. I am under doctor's orders not to allow myself to become overtired, and am doing my best to comply, but even so_

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

\- _I really ought to have begun with one of the uncles,_ Sam thinks. _No need to explain much of anything to any of_ them.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

 _the week was much more eventful than I expected._

 _I've been reliably informed (by Glenda in fact) that several members of the 215_ _th_ _have applied to be transferred, but that none of the requests has been granted, so that you will all be here until the job is finished – no later than the end of November, Glenda tells me, but that's long enough that we may see each other in Hastings. If that happens you may see me in the company of a particular person and I think that I ought to explain who that is._

 _When we met you asked if I had a boyfriend and I said that I did, which was true. When I accepted your invitation to the dance you asked if he'd mind and I said that I didn't think so. That was true as well. The simplest way of explaining this is to say that in between times he and I_

Brooke hears the scratching of Sam's pen come to a halt. He glances in her direction and sees her lost in thought.

She begins writing again.

 _had a huge misunderstanding which made me think that we were finished. He believed so as well at the time. However last week he returned to Hastings after being stationed in Essex (northeast of London) for a year and a half and it seems that we aren't._

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

\- _None of which is actually untrue,_ Sam says to herself.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

 _The fact is though that I knew this when you and I were walking out,_

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

\- _Partly true, at least ..._

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

 _even if I wasn't willing to admit it to myself, and that is_ _part_ _of why I had to refuse your proposal. I know that I ought to have been more honest with you, and another reason that I am writing this letter is to apologise for not having done so. Then again, perhaps I_ _couldn't_ _have been honest with you, since I wasn't being honest with myself either._

 _I wish you every happiness and all the luck in the world. I hope that you won't mind my telling you that Glenda mentioned to me that she saw you in the lobby at the Ruby on Saturday. She said that you looked as though you were having a very good time and I'm tremendously glad of that._

 _Best wishes always,_

 _Sam Stewart_

Sam reads her letter to Joe once, then twice. _Only just adequate,_ she decides, _but I can't tell him more than that without repeating official secrets – or taking the risk of hurting his feelings._

Her hand aches from gripping her pen too tightly. Suddenly she feels more tired than she has in a week. She carefully folds the letter, quickly writes Joe's address on an envelope, affixes a stamp onto it, slips the letter inside and seals it closed. Then she reaches into her haversack and draws out the letter from Aunt Amy.

* * *

Braithfield Farm  
Fullerton Road  
Red Rice, Andover, Hampshire

 _4 September 1942_

 _My dear Sam,_

 _It was_ _wonderful_ _to see you on Wednesday, even for so short a visit, and I hope that you enjoyed it as much as I did! The visit to your posting, if that's the correct way of putting it, was quite fascinating, and it was_ _most_ _gratifying to see that you are so highly regarded there. Please do remember me to all of your colleagues. In retrospect I_ _do_ _have to say that it's odd that they haven't given you your own office, or at least a desk! As it was a shortage of personnel that created the need for a driver, it follows that there must be some space available in the station house where you could have your own base of operations. Merely a suggestion, but you might give it some thought._

'Finished writing your letters, then, Miss Stewart?' Brooke asks cheerfully.

'Oh – actually, Brookie, I'm _not_. I have a letter from my aunt – you met her last week – so I'm reading that, for a respite. She asks to be remembered to you.'

'Well, that's very nice. You can sit over there and read, though. 'Fraid I need my desk back.'

 _Aunt Amy's point exactly,_ Sam thinks, but she moves her belongings back to the waiting room bench.

 _There was a fair amount of excitement here while I was away. Letters arrived from all of your cousins. All of them mentioned having sent cards for your birthday, and all expressed great concern about you: I hope, my dear, that you have written back to each of them._

Sam experiences a guilty pang.

 _They are all doing well. I am_ _slightly_ _concerned about Alex and Teddy who as third-generation Scots Guardsmen seem to be receiving more deference than they are really entitled to. (The fact that they are twins also appears to have impressed itself too strongly upon the minds of their superiors.) I can only hope that they won't take it all too seriously. Alex may have written to you too long ago to be able to say that he has just been promoted to the rank of captain; funnily enough, Teddy_ _didn't_ _offer us his views on this. In any event it ought to lead to some promotion leave, although I can't imagine where one would take leave where they are. Of course I would dearly like to see both of them transferred to some less hazardous duty. Valerie, Peter and Iona are still managing pretty well in Alex's absence and I've noticed that Valerie has become far more self-confident than in the past._

 _Laura, meanwhile, is quite enchanted with Cheshire and even seems to have been getting, if not her feet, then at least a toe or two wet in the life of Great Paxton. Her father, ever the optimist, wonders if this means that his spinster daughter is quite enchanted with someone_ _in_ _Cheshire and has finally found her destined husband. (I've felt it best to refrain from saying anything to that other than 'Hm.') She hasn't much free time, of course. You've probably read in the paper by now that there is to be an increased call-up of women next year. Mercifully, you won't be effected by this, but hundreds of thousands of other girls will, so Laura and her comrades in Training Command are going to have their hands even more full than they do now. _

_In addition to all of this, I arrived home to find that a small miracle took place in my absence: your dear Uncle Michael has decided that_ _we __must __get __on __the __telephone!_ _This appears to be the influence of the Women's Land Army, whose leaders have become concerned that the girls who are billeted with us are excessively isolated without access to one. We can't afford to become an undesirable assignment, as your uncle_ _now_ _says. Naturally this comes at a time when almost any improvement to the property is impossible, or at best requires a very long wait. On the other hand perhaps that will be for the best, as your uncle thinks at present that it ought to be installed in either the shed or the barn, which would somewhat limit its usefulness, wouldn't you agree? A delay will give him time to see even more sense than he already has._

 _Now then, my dear – it will not surprise you to learn that I have given our conversation of Wednesday evening a_ _great __deal_ _of thought, and I hope that you won't object if I offer you an additional round of advice._

 _I ought to begin by telling you that I stopped in Lyminster on my way back to Braithfield and passed a few hours with your parents. Your observation that your father's and my generation of Stewarts have difficulty keeping secrets from one another is sadly accurate; but you may rest assured that I_ _did_ _keep yours and will continue to do so for as long as you find it advisable._

 _That said, and_ _all __being __well_ _, as Uncle Michael and I feel optimistic that it is – please do write and tell us! – I really do think that the time has arrived for you to announce Flt Lt Foyle's existence to your parents. You are likely to find that they are more accepting of the situation than you anticipate. They will probably want to be introduced to him, but that can be arranged at everyone's convenience. (You might find it necessary to mention that you and he were estranged for a few months, but there will be no need to explain the reason, or at least not in any detail. I would_ _not_ _recommend telling them about your other suitor. That would only confuse them.)_

 _Regardless, I also want to urge you to visit Lyminster_ _yourself_ _. While I quite understand your wish to place some distance between yourself and your childhood home, I hadn't realised that you've not been back since your departure nearly three years ago! Do you remember how we wrote at that time of the war seeming like a sort of_ _gift_ _for many young people? You will find that it has been that for your parents as well. Your father, always a fine liturgist and a decent preacher, has become a much better minister, both more decisive and less judgmental. As for your mother, while I would not go so far as to describe her as the picture of health, she does seem to have got a new lease of life. She has begun attending meetings of the Lyminster Women's Institute (something that I have been urging her to do for longer than I care to recall), become_ _somewhat_ _more involved than previously in parish life and seems to have found her way back into the kitchen on a regular basis – with fairly decent results, at least on the evidence of a single visit. My suggestion that she visit you in Hastings was coolly received, however, so the ball is in your court. Your parents love you, Sam; they do worry about you (and your recent illness hasn't helped in that department), but they are also_ _very_ _proud of you._

 _There is one other subject on which I will take the liberty of sharing my thoughts. I am sorry if I unsettled you on Wednesday, as indeed I could clearly see that I did, with my question about intimate matters. It is a decision that you may very well find yourself having to make, nevertheless – if not with regard to your airman, then about some future suitor. As I said then, this is a_ _very_ _old problem; and while you may rest assured that I would not judge you harshly for taking that leap 'without benefit of clergy' – a phrase that I use advisedly, as I certainly wouldn't say the same of your parents or your uncles – I must emphasise that I do_ _not_ _wish to see you sacrifice yourself. What I mean by that is that a woman will sometimes take it into her head that she can relieve a man's burdens by giving herself to him, in a seemingly heroic act, regardless of the risk involved. This notion becomes particularly attractive in wartime, from what I've observed, but it's no more true in war than it is in peace._ _No_ _– if you are going to allow a man that degree of intimacy outside of the bonds of marriage, then it must be something that_ _you_ _want for_ _yourself_ _._

 _Then there is the problem of alleviating the risk I mentioned above. Here, alas, I am afraid that I must let you down a bit. On Wednesday I said that it has become 'somewhat easier not to get caught,' or something to that effect. While I am quite certain that this is true, it is the better part of two decades since I have had to think about this on my own behalf; and of course I had long since left nursing for domestic life by then; and then even when I was a nurse my remit was caring for injured and ailing soldiers, not for their wives and daughters. The result of all this is that I have no useful – which is to say no up-to-date – information which which I can provide you. I thought of asking a younger woman, but neither Valerie nor Marjorie Tazewell, my neighbor in Stockbridge Road whom you may recall, are the sort with whom one can discuss this question (and with five children I must assume that Mrs T simply doesn't avail herself). The best advice I can offer is to consult a woman doctor, if there is one in Hastings – or, of course, a nurse! Does your circle in Hastings include any nurses?_

Sam lets her breath out after realising abruptly that she has been holding it in for several seconds. She wonders if she's blushing; although, to her surprise, her face doesn't feel hot at all.

\- _It does,_ she thinks, silently answering her aunt's question.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

 _I see that I have played my usual trick of expressing myself at far greater length than I had planned to do. It is now quite late, and I must close this if I am to give it to the postman tomorrow morning. Again, I am hopeful that all is well with you – and even_ _more_ _hopeful that you will write and tell us soon!_

 _Your most fond aunt,_

 _Amy Braithwaite_

* * *

 _No wonder Dad and Mother think that Aunt Amy is a troublemaker,_ Sam thinks. _And they already know that we had a visit last week._

She has already made up her mind to tell her parents about Andrew, _but I shall have to be especially careful of what I write,_ she decides.

Brooke is still at his desk; Sam gathers up her things.

'Brookie, I'm going to go sit in the canteen, if anyone needs to speak to me.'

'It's not even eleven o'clock, Miss Stewart – Mrs Threadgill won't let you in there at this hour.'

'Well, then, I'll be in the kitchen.'


	2. Chapter 2

_In c/o Mrs Hardcastle, no. 25, Stonefield Road  
(but writing just now from Hastings Police HQ, as we are having a quiet day so far)_

 _7 September 1942_

 _Dear Mother and Dad,_

 _I am sorry to be so tardy in writing this letter. A great deal happened here last week; I shall have more to tell you about this momentarily._

 _Thank you_ _so_ _very,_ _very_ _much_ _for the beautiful scarf that you sent for my birthday! Ashes of roses is not a regulation color for the MTC, so I'll not be able to wear it with my duty uniform, but I shall be very proud to do so on week-ends, or_

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

– _When,_ Sam thinks. _No, if._

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

 _if I go out some evening._

 _I am feeling_ _very_ _much_ _better_ _and returned to work last week – on my birthday, in fact, which was a lovely gift itself. The doctor who looked after me has warned me not to overexert myself for the time being and all of my friends here are helping me with this. (As it happens the doctor resigned his post at the hospital last week_

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

– _That isn't anything that Mother and Dad need to know about,_ Sam realizes as she writes the words. _Too late to change it now, though._

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

 _in order to join up, I think.) It was a very eventful week nevertheless. As you already know Aunt Amy made a surprise visit to Hastings on Wednesday. It was quite lovely to see her, of course. I gave her a tour of Police HQ and introduced the people I work with. Mr Foyle and D/Sgt Milner have now met_ _three_ _people in the Stewart family – Dad two years ago and Uncle Aubrey a couple of months after that – or four if you count me, and I do think that they have been quite impressed with us._

 _However, the most important thing that happened last week is something that began quite a long time ago. I know that I ought to have told you about it much sooner than this, but I didn't want to_

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

– _worry you,_ Sam thinks. _No, they've been worried the whole time._

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

 _give you any further cause for worry._

'We keeping you sufficiently occupied this morning, Sam?' Foyle asks from the kitchen doorway.

'Yes, sir. That is, I'm keeping _myself_ occupied.' She rises part-way from her chair. 'Do you need me to drive you somewhere, sir?'

'Oh, no, not at all. We're having a very quiet day here today, it seems. As you were,' he says, pleasantly. Sam sits down again.

'Sir, I was wondering about something,' she begins before he can leave the room.

'Yes, Sam?'

'Well... it's just that I'm sitting _here_ because Brookie needs his desk and the canteen is closed until lunch. It's rather inconvenient if I need to write something.'

'And, um, what _are_ you writing?'

'Letters,' Sam admits, 'which isn't police business, of course, but as you say, sir, there's very little else for me to do at the moment, and I need to make use of my time _somehow.'_

'Yes, I suppose so,' Mr Foyle agrees.

'And it occurred to me, sir' – _Well, it occurred to Aunt Amy,_ Sam admits silently, _but I suppose that I don't need to_ say _that_ – 'that there might be a small desk in this building that I could use on a permanent basis.' This earns her raised eyebrows from Mr Foyle, but she goes on. 'After all, sir, since my secondment to this department came about because of a personnel shortage, one could reasonably expect to find some extra equipment available.'

'Point taken. And it's true,' Mr Foyle admits, 'that there are a few vacant desks in the constables' room. But I _don't_ know that _that_ would be, um, an appropriate spot for you.'

'Perhaps, if they're small enough, one could be moved behind the main desk opposite the waiting area. I could help with that,' Sam offers. 'I've helped my father move furniture about in the vicarage often enough.'

'I'll look into it,' Mr Foyle replies. Then, to Sam's mild surprise, he asks, 'Who're you writing to?'

'I owe a _lot_ of letters,' Sam tells him sheepishly, 'but this one is to my parents.'

'Ah. Yes. How long ago was it that I met your father?' Mr Foyle goes on after an instant.

'It will be two years and a month on Wednesday,' Sam replies at once.

'Please remember me to him.'

'I will, sir.'

'A lot's happened since then.'

'Yes, it has,' Sam agrees. 'I'm writing to my parents, in part, to... put them in the picture about... some of those things. I've never done that before now.'

Mr Foyle nods.

'Well, I'll let you get _to_ it,' he says.

Sam watches him leave, then looks down at her letter, takes a deep breath and goes back to writing.

 _What I need to tell you is that I love someone. His name is Andrew Foyle. As you might guess from that he is Mr Foyle's son. We would most likely never have met if not for that._

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

– _I oughtn't to have told them that,_ Sam thinks. _They already rue the day I joined the MTC, no matter_ what _Aunt Amy says. This will only make matters worse._

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

 _Part of my job is to call at Mr Foyle's house and collect him each workday morning, and one day (8 August 1940 to be exact) Andrew answered the door when I knocked. I wasn't very impressed with him at the time but I think that I was rather_ _determined_ _not to be. Last week Andrew told me that he has loved me ever since then even though he didn't know it at first._

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

– _Oughtn't to have told them_ that, _either. They'll think it sounds like dissembling. Pay attention to what you're doing, Stewart!_

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

 _I suppose that's the sort of thing that one ought to take with a pinch of salt, but he does love me._

 _We began walking out together a couple of months after that. Andrew is a Spitfire pilot in the R.A.F. – at that time he was flying missions out of the airbase here. He is a superior pilot, but of course it was very dangerous. To make matters worse at the beginning of last year he was put on night duty. By the middle of February he was_

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

– _in a dreadful frame of mind,_ Sam thinks. _No, don't write that. It's true, but don't tell Mother and Dad._

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

 _utterly exhausted._

 _At that point Andrew was transferred to Training Command, and promoted as well, to the rank of Flight Lieutenant. That was the good part of it. Unfortunately he was also posted to Debden, in Essex. There are_ _two_ _places in Essex with that name, and the airbase is in the smaller and farther away one, a smaller place even than Lyminster apparently, and quite isolated. To make matters worse, the Group Captain there seems to have had some quite peculiar notions about duty, endurance, etc. and would never let anyone under his command take more than 24 hours' leave at a time. With the way things are now it takes_ _at_ _least_ _eight hours to travel between there and here, so Andrew was simply unable_ _ever_ _to come home._

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

– _We wrote back and forth about my going to see him there but there was no place at all for me to stay._ Sam considers writing this and then thinks, _Absolutely not. Even the_ idea _would horrify them._

It occurs to Sam that Mr Foyle doesn't want her to sit in the constables' room for very much the same reason that her parents would be aghast at the idea of her travelling alone to Debden to visit Andrew. _The difference is that Mr Foyle trusts me and doesn't trust the constables. My parents wouldn't trust me, would they, and I shall have to convince them somehow to trust Andrew._

– _And then Andrew started to feel that he wasn't doing anything useful and was extremely unhappy,_ Sam considers writing. _And then he didn't write to me at all for a time._

– _No. Don't tell them_ that, _either._

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

 _This was very hard for us, as you may imagine, and this year after Easter we did begin to have some real difficulties._

Sam lays down her pen for a few moments and leans her head on her hand, which has once again begun to ache.

She remembers that she used the word _misunderstanding_ when she wrote to Joe, and picks up her pen again as she makes a decision.

 _The simplest and most charitable thing to say is that in April we had a huge misunderstanding and were estranged from then until very recently._

 _Andrew has just been transferred back to Hastings – he is still assigned to Training Command. He was on leave last week and came back before his posting began. He asked to see me, and to cut a_ _very_ _long story short, we have managed clear things up fairly well and we are a couple once again. I am very,_ _very_ _happy – I really don't know how else to say it._

'Morning, Sam. What are you doing in here?'

'Good morning, Milner,' Sam answers. 'I'm trying to write some letters, since it's so quiet this morning, and it seems there's nowhere else for me to work. Except for the constables' room. I _could_ sit at a desk there.'

'No,' Milner replies without hesitating. 'I've _been_ a constable, Sam. You don't want to do that.'

'That's more or less what Mr. Foyle said.'

' _He's_ been a constable as well.' Milner busies himself with the kettle.

'I do wish -' Sam begins to retort, and then stops. _I do wish that everyone would stop trying to protect me._

 _Don't be so ungrateful. Everyone is trying to_ help _me._

 _Including Aunt Amy._

' _Does your circle in Hastings include any nurses?'_ Aunt Amy had written.

 _It does,_ Sam thinks once again.

'I've had a letter from my aunt – you met her last week,' she tells Milner. 'She asks to be remembered to you.'

'Oh, that's very kind of her. Please do the same for me.'

'I shall,' Sam promises. 'How is Edith?' she goes on at once, and then chides herself: _Don't be so obvious._ _He probably hasn't even seen her since Saturday._

'Funny you should ask,' Milner replies, sounding surprised. 'I've just spoken with her. She's being transferred to casualty, starting tomorrow.'

'How odd! She was _quite_ popular amongst the patients in the ward when I was there. I remember that. And,' Sam goes on, more hesitantly, 'with Dr Brindley... having left, there'll be almost no-one left on that ward from... '

'From when you were a patient there,' Milner finishes for her. 'That occurred to me, as well. Some orderlies from the ward are being transferred to casualty along with Edie. They were told that there's expected to be greater pressure on the casualty department in the near future.'

'That does make sense, I suppose.'

'It does. We've got one air base in Hastings and we're about to have a second, so there are bound to be combat injuries, but there's no military hospital nearer than Brighton, except for burn cases. Edie's not terribly happy about it, but she says she'll get used to it. Are you writing to your aunt now?' Milner goes on, changing the subject.

'No – I will, but this is to my parents.'

'Oh, please remember me to your father, then. I met him once, a couple of years ago.'

'I remember that.'

'He was very helpful – to his own surprise, I think.'

Milner excuses himself and Sam goes back to her letter.

 _It's quite possible that Andrew will be sent away again at some point, or return to flying missions, and of course I don't like those ideas at all, but the fact is that we have had a much easier time of it than many other couples. There are lots of girls who haven't seen their sweethearts or husbands since the war began or even before that._

 _Andrew and I have never discussed marriage. I read in the newspaper recently that the number of couples being married has gone_ _up_ _each year since the began. Friends of ours were married in April and I think that they are very brave! It seems a lot to take on during wartime and under the circumstances it would be very difficult for me to continue in my work for the police if I were Andrew's wife. However having written all of this I must add that I believe that we_ _will_ _talk about marriage eventually._

 _I should like to send you a photograph of Andrew but the only ones I have are from 1940 and he looks very young in them. I think that he and I both have grown up a_ _great_ _deal_ _during the past two years. The wife in the newly married couple I wrote of takes pictures for our local paper – perhaps I can ask her to take a photograph of Andrew when she has time. Of course I hope that I will be able to introduce Andrew to you in person soon, but that will take some arranging as he has only just had a week's leave and I suppose that Mother can't travel here for a holiday._

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

– _Possibly, just possibly, that will spur Mother to action._

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

 _And I do want to visit Lyminster myself, whether with Andrew or without him._

 _Mr Foyle and Sgt Milner have each looked in on me as I've been writing this and both asked to be remembered to Dad._

 _I must close this if I am to get it off to you today. Please know that I miss you both very much, but that I continue to find it tremendously gratifying and fulfilling to be part of the war effort (and a great relief not to be subject to the call-up, since Dad was so wise as to decide that I should join the MTC before it began!)._

 _Your loving daughter,_

 _Samantha_

ooooooooooooooo

The rain shows no signs of stopping, but at least it has let up somewhat. Sam is retrieving her umbrella from the rubbish bin in the waiting area when the telephone rings. She waits to see if she'll need to bring the car around. _I can always deliver Mr Foyle and Milner to the scene of the crime and then find a post-box while I wait for them,_ she thinks.

'Hastings Police,' Brookie says. 'Oh, yes, good to 'ear you! ... Yes 'e 'is! You _do_ know there's a private line? ... Oooh, I see, I see. _That_ can be arranged, mate. Just do me a favour and don't keep the line engaged too long, all right? Public safety and such. Miss Stewart!' he goes on, just as Sam, having decided that she isn't needed at this instant, is turning to leave. 'You're wanted on the telephone.'

 _Sam Stewart here,_ she is about to say as she takes the receiver, but at the last moment she changes her mind.

'Hello?'

'Hello, Sam.'

'Oh, Andrew, how lovely,' Sam replies in surprise, and to her surprise she finds her voice catching slightly in her throat. 'What are you doing? Have you let your pupils out for recess?'

'They haven't reported yet, though I have seen the list. No, we're just setting things up today. They've given us our own building to use, though, which is more than we had at Debden. Brand-new, too. But yes, we're having a bit of a breather. What have you been getting up to?'

'Writing letters.'

'For the Police Department?' Andrew sounds genuinely, if only faintly, puzzled.

'No, my own – including one to my parents.'

'They'll know about me, then.'

'In a day or two, yes, they will. It does feel a bit... earth-shaking.'

'I'll be on the alert for tremors. What has Dad had to say about your conducting private business all morning?'

'There's been nothing else for me _to_ do, really. It's been very quiet here. More rain, less crime, Brookie says.'

'Have you read the... _thing_ that I gave to you yesterday?'

'Yes, I did,' Sam tells him, lowering her voice almost without realising it. Now, for the first time all morning, she feels herself blushing. 'It's beautiful. I really don't think that I can talk about it here, though. I thought I wouldn't hear from you until Thursday,' she goes on.

'Thursday _if not earlier,_ is what we said,' Andrew reminds her. 'The thing of it is, Sam, this is the first day in nearly a week that I haven't seen you, and I think that I'm having... what do they call it? Withdrawal symptoms.'

ooooooooooooooo

LYMINSTER, WEST SUSSEX – TWO DAYS LATER

'She seems to have kept up her penmanship fairly well, I have to say,' Mr Stewart comments, and then goes back to reading aloud. '"Mr Foyle and D/Sgt Milner have now met _three_ people in the Stewart family – Dad two years ago and Uncle Aubrey a couple of months after that – or four if you count me, and I do think that they have been quite impressed with us."'

'Well, I should hope so,' Mrs Stewart responds with a small laugh, 'though I wonder what they made of Aemelia.'

'This is a pretty long letter – perhaps we'll find out! Do you think, Emma, that another cup of tea would be feasible?'

'We're being urged to drink _less_ tea, not more,' Mrs Stewart reminds her husband.

'Hm.' Mr Stewart goes back to the letter. '"However, the most important thing that happened last week is something that -"'

He breaks off, makes a quiet sound that his wife thinks could signal surprise, distress, resignation or some combination of those things, and reads silently for a time.

'What is it, Iain?' Mrs Stewart asks sharply. 'Is anything the matter?'

'Well,' Mr Stewart answers after a moment. 'I suppose that we ought to have been expecting this.' He looks up. 'There's a young man, it seems – and there _has_ been for quite some time. A Spitfire pilot,' he goes on, although he knows that this will do nothing at all to alleviate the concern that he now sees in his wife's face. Then he adds, in a more optimistic voice, 'I've met his father.'

FINIS

ooooooooooooooo

Author's note:  
There were approximately 409,000 weddings in the United Kingdom in 1938. For the war years, the numbers are as follows:  
1939 – 495,000  
1940 – 534,000  
1941 – 449,000  
1942 – 429,000  
1943 – 345,000  
1944 – 349,000  
1945 – 457,000  
Source: Norman Longmate, _How We Lived Then: A History of Everyday Life During the Second World War_ (London: Hutchinson  & Co., 1971; reprint, London, Pimlico, 2002), p. 156.


End file.
